


Bid Me Sing to Thee

by cinphoria



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Animal Transformation, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Undressed Zolf, Domestic, Everybody Lives, Except Bertie, Flashback narrative, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hurt/Comfort, I honestly tried to put him in as well but the man just serves no story purpose, M/M, Navigating disabilities, Other, Post-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romance, Season 4 Spoilers, Seriously there's a lot of fluff and a LOT of angst, Tags May Change, depends on how you define romance, flangst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinphoria/pseuds/cinphoria
Summary: The world is safe and Oscar Wilde is tired. Everyone fuck off. He just wants to be a cat.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to [j_whirl44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_whirl44/pseuds/j_whirl44), [Miri1984](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984), and the WR(WSWotN)s for letting me ramble at them while I worked this out.
> 
> Happy birthday, Oscar.
> 
> (Story summary courtesy of, of course, the infinitely quotable Ben Meredith.)

_Paris, 1900_

Mist settles over Paris as a late spring dawn creeps in. Filtering through the droplets of water, pale morning light rouses the city from her slumber, sparkling as it shines through high arched windows of the terraced apartments south of the River Seine. Zolf wakes, coaxed from his dreams by the gentle light and warm breeze ruffling the delicate sheers of his bedroom window.

Having had several disagreements over the attempts to resolve their living situation, he had protested when Wilde suggested looking for a flat on the Left Bank. Immediately, his mind volunteered images of that preposterous hotel suite with its far too large rooms and glass domed ceiling and pristine white-and-gold panel walls and furniture that looked too expensive and far too fine for Zolf to touch and the view of the Arc d'Ordinateurs with its many, many tourists that swarmed it everyday. Then Wilde had smiled that crooked but genuine smile so few got to see, made a self-deprecating joke, and Zolf couldn't imagine doing anything other than stomping along after him and pretending to mind.

The place surprised him. They had turned down one of the small streets leading off of the main boulevard along the Seine, then several more, each barely wide enough for a carriage to pass through. The building was one of many Baroque terraced houses in the arrondissement, each row of them occupying a whole block, and there was a bookshop and a tailor's and a series of tiny cafés on the ground floor. It did not offer a view of the river, nor of Notre Dame, but only of the practically identical building opposite it, the same view as any of them would. The flat was on the second floor, through a modest lobby and up aged but sturdy stairs. Zolf did not, at that moment, know what to expect when the estate agent opened the door, and what he saw was a spacious room with a high ceiling and grand windows but which somehow felt to him private and homely. It was devoid of furniture, dust covering the parquet floor, cream-coloured wallpaper peeling a bit in places. Zolf had stepped into the space and felt at peace. He said nothing as he trailed after Wilde, who sauntered through each room and chatted amicably with the estate agent in French. At one point, Wilde looked over at him, winked, and he knew Wilde understood that this was the one.

This morning, unhurriedly, he reaches over the bed to retrieve his metal legs, taking his time attaching the prostheses. He makes his way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for himself and Wilde as had become routine long ago, before they came back to Paris, before the world started getting put back together again, before he shared a home with, unbelievably, Oscar Wilde out of choice rather than necessity. Having set the tea and coffee brewing, he takes in the morning delivery of pastries and bread, faithfully left for him in the lobby of the building by the bubbly teenage girl whose parents owned their favourite boulangerie, collects the morning papers, then clunks back up the stairs and begins to fix fluffy omelettes for them both, newspapers left on the hall table where Wilde could grab them on his way to breakfast.

Wilde usually emerges from his rooms shortly after Zolf does, and that was part of the routine they started long ago too. He would lean languidly against the kitchen table while Zolf cooked, drinking his first cup of coffee (of many) for the day and playfully chattering at Zolf about the gossip in the society columns. That part was new. He has, however, yet to be seen this particular morning, and once the omelettes were cooked and cooling swiftly, Zolf trundles off to knock on his door.

"Oscar," he calls through the white oak with swooping giltwood carvings, a twin to his own but for where each was more or less weathered than the other, "breakfast's on the table. Come eat before it gets cold. I don't want to hear any complaining from you about the cheese goin' weird."

There's no answer, and as he knocks again, the door, only appearing properly closed, swings open to reveal an unmade, slept-in bed and no Oscar Wilde. Zolf frowns and does a cursory walk through the flat. Seeing no sign of the man, he does what any sensible person would do next, which is to look for a note. Then again, it also takes a sensible person to leave one, and Wilde was, at times, rather less sensible than Zolf's nerves would like. Resolving to only do a quick sweep and decidedly _not_ worrying, Zolf stops short as soon as he rounds the doorway of their small library, where a sleek sable-coloured cat lounges in Wilde's favourite chair and seems to be placidly taking in the new book of poetry he picked up for Wilde the day before. This is odd, because as far as Zolf is aware, they do not own a cat, and especially not one interested in reading books.

"Er," Zolf says, intelligently.

"Mrow," the cat says, looking up. Zolf backs out of the room, not taking his eyes off the cat. For a vertigo-inducing moment he wonders if he was finally going mad. He takes a deep breath and steps back into the room. The cat is still there. Zolf stares into its eyes and it stares back, unmoving. Its eyes are a changing storm whose colour Zolf can't quite pin down, and he is suddenly perfectly sure that they're the same eyes he's gotten to know so well in the last few years.

" _Wilde?_ " He says, incredulous.

The cat trills and purrs and then goes back to reading.

Zolf, very carefully and deliberately, takes another long, deep breath. The cat - _Wilde_ \- doesn't seem to be in distress and all in all, is acting rather nonchalant about his current state as a cat. "Right. Okay. Anyway, breakfast is ready if you... want an omelette. Or somethin'."

The cat seems to consider this for a moment, then gracefully hops off the chair and trots past Zolf, swooping his tail by Zolf's shins, and into the kitchen where everything has been laid out in its usual way on the small table by the bay window. Zolf follows, and then very rapidly has an entire argument with himself in his head about the cat being on the breakfast table. In the end, he shrugs and sits down in his seat, tucking into his food as he watches the surprisingly large housecat daintily nibble on Wilde's omelette.

Then the cat shifts over and starts lapping at the cup of coffee - black, three sugars, which Zolf personally finds revolting - that he had left for Wilde.

"Hey, no," Zolf snatches the cup away from the cat mid-lap. The cat glares. "I'm no veterinarian, but I'm pretty sure coffee ain't good for cats." The cat looks affronted and Zolf grins. "Huh. Guess it's really you, eh?"

Oscar Wilde the cat looks for a moment like he's seriously considering a campaign to reacquire his coffee, but he sniffs haughtily and goes back to his omelette in lofty, but amiable, silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, we're going back in time to Japan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tag for this chapter: Navigating disabilities

_ Okinoshima,1897 _

Rain beat a gentle rhythm on the bark shingles of the remote inn. Despite the unending reminder of that which had occupied his mind and composed much of his worries for the last few months, Zolf still found it a comforting noise to get lost in, to let his thoughts wash away with it, a steady assurance of a world that existed outside of his own head and only ornamented with the soft clinking of ceramic. He lost himself in these sounds and the rote motions of preparing breakfast - a new routine, but one that he took solace in for its quiet simplicity.

Outside, dawn had barely broken, only a cool light suffusing through the paper screens of the windows. Zolf relished in the tranquility of this time of the day, when he was the only soul awake and about, when the sounds of insects slowly gave way to the chirping of birds, strong and clear in the face of the dismal weather, when he could pretend that the world outside is fine, and everything is normal, before they must get to the grim business of the day. Here in this fleeting and liminal hour, he could let his hands work and his heart be light and his eyes see nothing but lovely things to nourish their bodies and souls with.

He loaded the tray with enough tea, miso soup, and rice laden with fried eggs and salted wakame and grilled fish for two. He slung the strap of the tray over his neck, picked up his cane, and began the arduous task of trying not to clunk too loudly down the silent halls of the inn. It was empty but for the two of them and its erstwhile owner, who was probably rising himself by now, but for whatever reason Zolf couldn't quite put his finger on, it always felt like the silence in these halls during his walk in the mornings ought to be inviolate.

In this, Wilde had once tried to expound on the folly of Zolf insisting on making the trek by himself with a tray every morning, but Zolf fixed him with a steely glare, looked meaningfully to Wilde's ankles, and Wilde closed his mouth mid-word with an almost audible snap and a small apologetic wry smile. Walking with magitech prosthetics meant to respond to signals from his subconscious was an entirely different experience to walking with a wooden peg leg, or legs made out of water, or his own legs made of flesh and bone. He had to learn to walk all over again, with legs that were the wrong weight and sometimes responded unpredictably as he tried too hard to consciously control them. He had to learn to relax and let them do their job, the scientists and healers told him. Easier said than done, he had scoffed, for an old stubborn dwarf like him.

He did, though, and he was learning still. It was a relief to be able to get around by himself, and the walking stick helped much. He tried not to think of the water legs too often, not how they had faded slowly, not how they left him uncertain of whether he'd be able to walk again whenever he next awoke, which day it will be when he won't, until they finally disappeared for good, until Poseidon no longer sent him cursed dreams or unwelcome gifts. He tried not to think about how for the first time in almost two decades, he felt no power and presence moving through him, no font of divinity, no wellspring of magic. He was, as he had once been, just a dwarf in some clothes.

Paper doors do not lend to knocking, and neither his nor Wilde's dispositions lend to announcing themselves, so this morning as with the past several weeks' worth of mornings, Zolf simply slid open the door to Wilde's rooms, laid the tray on the low tea table, gracelessly fell to a sitting position which he found more or less acceptable and was more or less on a cushion, and sipped his tea, waiting for Wilde to emerge from his bedroom.

Wilde emerged a scant minute or two later dressed impeccably, and Zolf expected nothing less. Wilde had explained the presence of the shackles when Zolf first arrived in Japan on his request, newly fitted with his own metallic devices, newly magicless, and determinedly continuing to investigate the unusual weather phenomena by hauling himself around the world on a pair of crutches. Zolf had looked at the state of his hair and the bags under his eyes and heard the fatigue in his voice and for the first time saw in Wilde a person he could understand.

Despite his more haggard appearance and new subdued wardrobe, Wilde was still never less than put together if the day was even slightly peaceful enough to allow him the time. The time was often hard won. Zolf quickly realised that for as much as Wilde had acted the carefree layabout, he must've worked as hard to appear indolent as he had on his actual work, which he did with single-minded focus and, frequently, well into the small hours. Zolf was himself not unfamiliar with either pride or coping mechanisms, and recognised this enough in Wilde to not comment on what small dignities the man tried to retain. For his part, he had expected questionable comments on his habit of being what most people would consider "half-dressed" and "not decent for company", preferring to wander around dishevelled in the inn's near tropical humidity in not much more than his underclothes. None came, and after a while, he stopped bracing for them. Zolf often found it amusing, the sight the two of them must make next to each other.

Wilde slid to a perfect seiza position with all of the grace that Zolf lacked, mumbled something that was never meant to be words, and set to bury his face in the steam from the tea. This was the one thing Zolf discovered about Wilde which disrupted that air of perfect eloquence he projected, like a portrait that at any moment will come to life to deliver a scathing witticism. For the first few weeks, before Zolf had started this little ritual, he would bump into Wilde in the kitchen some mornings, where the man absconded with tea and whatever was the least inconvenient to eat, usually something far too insubstantial to help build him back up from the bag of skin and bones Zolf privately thought he'd become. On those mornings, Zolf would be lucky to get a curt nod, and often it seemed like Wilde didn't notice he was in the room at all.

Wilde had become quiet. Some days, Wilde stayed quiet, and Zolf wouldn't hear him speak a word. This had first discomfited Zolf, not knowing where he stood with this new Wilde who didn't immediately make an impudent remark or indelicate joke at every turn. At some point, and Zolf didn't know when, it had morphed to worry. One day after lunch where Wilde had spoken to him at length on some frivolous subject he'd since forgotten, Zolf asked him what the deal was. Wilde tossed his head and put on his showman smile. "My dear Mr. Smith," he said, "only dull people are brilliant at breakfast." It wasn't his subtlest deflection. It wasn't even a good attempt. Zolf said nothing more on the subject.

Many breakfasts together later, he learned that the only thing to do is be patient. He waited, and if Wilde was inclined to speak that day, he would settle into the day and become verbal again at his own pace. If he didn't, then they spent the day in peaceful silence, Zolf himself not being much of a talker to begin with. He was a patient dwarf when he wanted to be, and somehow, despite all past experience to the contrary, Oscar Wilde made him want to be.

They ate in silence for a while, until Zolf judged Wilde could handle a little bit of conversation. He looked at Wilde's head critically and furrowed his brows. "Your hair's growing out a bit funny on the side," he said between bites. "Want me t' trim it again?"

Wilde hummed, a soft happy noise, the corners of his mouth curling almost imperceptibly into a smile.


End file.
